cw: blood, gore, animal death, child soldiers

A little girl clamped her teeth down tight and ripped upward with her shoulders, neck, and jaw. Straight up, her glare bolted to a wispy, grey cloud in the dark blue sky, as her braids danced around her head. Blood sprayed. Meat and gristle flapped around the hyena’s throat. The sounds of its barks & screams suddenly dampened into wheezes that whistled through the fresh, pink hole below its muzzle. Its clawing motions subsided, its forelegs twitched less and less, limper and limper. The weight of it, twice as big as herself, finally sagged in the little girl’s taut, little arms.

Ruk tossed the beast aside, rolled onto her knees, and staggered up to her feet. She breathed deep of the gore that covered her face. She smeared her blood covered hands on her threadbare dress, then saluted the stars and sent a wordless prayer down to the earth, and deeper onward unto Ogra.

Fat drops of blood dripped down off her chin and spattered the warm, new corpse between her feet. She sucked in another deep breath, in through her nose and out between her tusks, and she spit out a bit of bone — not hers, the hyena’s — before she stomped its chest in for good measure, and looked around. Everything felt brighter now: the red cleared from the edges of her vision and the deep need for violence recoiled to whatever darkest corner dwelt within her. A flood of relief and a serene smile took over.

Across the loose dirt and rock, a distance of maybe thirty feet, a big man glared at her with cold, red eyes. He was old but solid, and deathly pale; the hardened wrinkles of his hide long ago bleached clear of pigment by the sun. He wore a loose, tan cloak and despite his rough & weathered face the metal of his armor gleamed silver with care. His longevity aside, he bore all the markings of a knight, and that steely gaze of his was chief among them.

The knight bent his head in an approving nod. He raised a scarred hand, and bid Ruk come to his side.

“Grun!” Ruk barked his name — the bloodlust had only just subsided, and sensible words had not yet returned to her — then staggered eagerly over to him, her smile bigger than ever. She paused to very carefully tip-toe over the neat circle of fraying rope that had marked the fighting pit where she had just slain the hyena.

The humble rings, made of scrap cloth and bits of cord, tied together and weighted down with rocks, were mostly just ritual; evenso, slapdash as they were, out here in the middle of nowhere, they still somehow set a reverent mood. To an ork, even a scamp like herself, the fighting ring was a holy place that even bloodlust could not befoul. When words and sense and kindness had all vanished beneath the flood of berserker rage, still nothing could break the ring; it was as sacred a thing as Ruk knew.

As she came close, Grun reached out and ruffled her thick brown hair, forcing a few locks loose from the simple braids she had tied earlier in the day. With a cheerful snarl she swiped her claws at the tough hide of his wrist, and batted him away.

“Hah c’mere, my little killer!,” he snorted and wrapped his hands around the small girl’s ribs. He lifted her up into the air with a wide swing, released her to the sky. Her arms kicked back and forth, weightless and squealing with joy.

“Stop, stop!” Ruk flailed as he caught her, sending a rain of bloody droplets down onto the knight and his polished armor. The two of them laughed, and he pulled her in close and to clean the gore off her face and lavish praises upon her.

With a few slow and easy steps, he eased back onto the boulder where he’d been perched all evening. As soon as most of the blood was cleaned off her chin, Ruk clambered out of his grasp onto the rocks beside him. Grun grasped up a long, thin switch made of reed — smooth and whiplike with a char-hardened tip — to poke at the embers as he talked, “that was good, little Squire. A lot of improvement there. Good for you!”

Ruk beamed, and reveled in the praise, then quirked an eyebrow.

The old knight shook his head and pursed his lips, “The Prince… He’s… Well. Take a look.”

The man gestured with a jut of his chin at another fighting pit a ways further on, and Ruk turned her head. She squinted as she tried to make sense of what she saw, then a look of horror slow-dawned on her face.

"Ogra, no..." Ruk said.

The rope circle was torn apart in no less than three places, and Ruk could scarcely tell where it was first laid given how much the pieces had been dragged about. That itself was an abomination to be sure, but no more so than its inhabitant; a clumsy boy about Ruk’s age with big, bright eyes. His clothes were plain, but finely stitched, and on his back he bore the crest of a withered tree. His shape was broad but soft and chubby, which would have been fine if he could actually eat to match his size — but no, Ruk was quite sure there were burrow-mice with healthier appetites than the Prince.

Which was all to say that on all accounts, he was flatly unimpressive. And yet somehow, he was also The Honored Prince Gelk, one of the prophesied few who might someday become a ruler of all the salts, and all its peoples alike; from the Orks and Goblins, to the Harpies and Lamias.  By Ruk’s estimation, if the boy made it that far, then he was certain to trip and break his neck on his way to the coronation.

Today, it seemed as good a day as any to prove Ruk right. The boy prince sobbed big, wet tears. Blood stained his arms and legs in shallow bite wounds. Snot spattered all over his face. And while he wailed sorrow to the sky, he chased a limping, whining salt-bear cub in circles, to hammer at it with wide swings of his lumpy fists.

The salt-bear, a bristly-furred herbivore with a long snout and lanky limbs, covered its head with one scrawny paw, as it hobbled to and fro as best it could to stay out of reach of the crybaby prince. Eventually, the Prince tripped over a stone, and in the process, tackled the poor thing, finally getting his hands on it properly.

Naturally, then he just sat there in shock.

“Kill it,” Grun snapped at the prince, but the young boy simply hugged tighter to the flailing cub, even as it clawed at the loose, rocky soil to get away.

“I-I don’t know how! What do I do?” Gelk whined. The cub tried to buck him off, and he squeezed his eyes shut, dug his heels into the dirt, and hugged tighter to the beast to keep it from wriggling away.

“Finish it. Just kill the fuckin’ thing,” Grun shouted. He squeezed the handle of his switch tighter

“He’s just gonna cuddle it all night,” Ruk said. “He’ll never kill it.”

“He better learn,” Grun huffed. “How you two are from the same litter, I’ll never understand.”

“We’re not,” Ruk rolled her eyes.

Grun raised a fluffy brow, “No? I could have sworn the Duke said you were.”

“Mm,” Ruk said, “The same rearing house, yeah. But he came a year after I did. My mom still visits the castle sometimes, but his never does.”

“She’s not both of your’s…?” Grun remarked, with that casual but sincere interest that had warmed Ruk up to him right away.

“No. Just mine,” she laughed. “She likes him well enough though. And he’s got me. And some of the nannies from the rearing house came with us to the castle. Oh no, look at him go, he’s trying to get it in the eye.”

“Mercifuls,” Grun said, and jabbed the fire with his switch. “Ogra, his form’s a mess.”

Sure enough, a whole minute passed this way, and all the while Prince Gelk hardly accomplished more than to exhaust the poor little bear (as well as add a few new scrapes and clawmarks to his forearms). With each moment that passed, Grun’s expression grew more agitated, and the gall on Ruk’s face gave way to giggles.

Finally the old knight stood, exasperated. He shoved Ruk's shoulder hard enough that she slipped sideways off the boulder and into the dirt, and by that time anyway, she was helpless to do anything except clutch her stomach as she tried to tame the laughter that strangled her.

Grun crossed over to Gelk’s ring, now no more than a flat patch of dirt and a bit of tarp, and he picked the fallen young ork up by his scruff. Gelk squeaked and thrashed in Grun's grip, but the big ork took no heed.

Released from Gelk’s grasp, the exhausted salt-bear slipped to the ground, tried to get up, once, twice, then collapsed in a tired heap. Grun dropped Gelk atop its back.

The way Gelk landed, he straddled the bear’s spine with a heavy thud and his knees squeezed under the beast’s forearms. He flopped his head backward, and his chest heaved with big, deep puffs of breath. His cheeks were flushed and tear-doused, and he looked up at the knight in surprise, “you’re not gonna thrash me, Grun?”

“Young Prince, forgive me, but should I hit you, you’d need smarts enough to learn something from it,” the knight sank down to his knees, and cradled himself around the young prince. Grun pressed the bulk of his chest against the back of Gelk’s head, and draped his arms over the boy’s shoulders. Grun took the young prince’s hands within his own. He guided Gelk’s fingers to the bear’s throat as it drooled and snarled underneath their combined weight.

“Pay attention,” Grun said, “at least you’ve gone and tuckered out the beast, so you did a good job there.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Gelk nodded and sniffed.

Ruk — who’d moved closer to get a good angle — squatted down with her elbows on her knees. She leaned in close enough to see the veins beneath Grun’s tough hands, the foam on the bear’s muzzle, the gnarls of its paws as it clawed at the soil. Watching this kind of violence when she wasn’t berserking made her stomach turn, but she had an odd fascination with it too, and Master Grun’s lessons were too valuable to pass up.

“Alright, first, let’s get a hold of the neck, right up near the jaw. Haven’t done this on a salt-bear before, but the principle should be the same. No, a little higher,” The salt-bear gasped and its tongue lolled out of the side of its mouth. Gelk felt around its ears, and Grun firmly pushed Gelk’s hands into position, “right under the jaw, here. You need the leverage. Squeeze tight. Don’t let it slip. You’re about to rip the skull right off the shoulders, understand?”

Gelk's hands looked small within Grun's, and the bear’s eyes were so wide that Ruk could’ve plucked them out if she’d been so inclined.

“Next, you're gonna… what?”

“Uhm,” Gelk floundered.

“What did I say the other day?”

“Uh, yank and twist?” Gelk asked.

“Yank and twist. Good. If you forget everything else in that thick skull of your’s, remember that, ‘yank and twist’. Repeat it.” Grun said.

“Yank and twist,” the prince whispered.

“Good. Don’t forget it. You’re going to yank the neck back as hard as you can. Your arms, your chest, all of it all at once, and you’re gonna torque hard to the side. Imagine like you’ve got the reins to a pair of oxen, and you need to make them turn all of a sudden. As hard as you can, just yank and twist.”

Grun let go, and Gelk tried to follow through with the motion that Grun had described. It took a few tries, but the third attempt resulted in a sick, wet snap and beneath the boy, the bear cub stopped moving. Gelk blinked, “oh my.”

“Gross,” Ruk muttered as she looked down at the thing.

Gelk looked down at his hands in awe then up at Ruk, “I… I did it. I killed it.”

“Not quite yet you didn’t,” Grun stood and patted the dust off his hands, “it’s paralyzed. More terrified than ever. It’ll soon die by shock, but a quick kill is a kinder one, Gelk. Try and remember that, too.”

“Uhm…” Gelk stammered. “So what should I…”

“With a big rock, Gelk,” Ruk spouted. “Just smash its head in. Put it out of its misery.”

Grun swatted at Ruk, and the girl yelped. Satisfied that she’d been reprimanded, Grun nodded his approval, then lay a hand on Gelk’s shoulder, “Kill it however you like. But remember, quick is kind.”

Gelk nodded and sniffed again, “I’ll, uhm, smash it’s head. But can you turn around? I don’t want you to see.” 

Ruk was about to protest further, but the knight spoke first, and his word was law, “of course, Your Grace.”

The knight and his squire both turned their backs. A moment later there was a loud, wet crack, and the prince’s timid voice followed, “alright. It’s dead. I think.”

Ruk took one look at the bearcub. The reflections of the stars glittered in its pooling blood, faster than the soil could drink it all up.

"Oh yeah, it's dead," Ruk said.

Before Gelk could start crying again, the knight swooped his arms around both of the kids, “Mercifuls, children well done. It’s been a long month, but that’s it. We’re done now. I’m very proud of you, and I’m sure the Duke and Duchess of Ironhill will be just as proud when you return home. Think of all the parades, the parties, the feasts, and after it all? Plenty of time to rest and play for the both of you. But for now, I think I hear some rumbling tummies. Why don’t you both gather your kills, and show me again how to skin and prepare the meat. We can cook it on the fire together, and I’ll tell you a story. That sound nice?”

Ruk and Gelk looked at Grun and then at each other and then the both scampered off toward their respective kills, their wild energy renewed. 

A few hours later, Gelk and Ruk flopped down in a heap, rubbing their hands in front of the fire, while Grun stoked the logs and stirred a small iron cauldron. The broth bubbled with aromatic roots and meat, and Grun tossed in fist after fist of alfalfa sprouts.

“Good kill, Gelk. I never thought you coulda. ” Ruk mused.

Gelk frowned.

"If you ever learn to Zerk, I can finally leave you to handle yourself."

Gelk toed at the dirt, looking at the ladle and the sprouts, “well…”

“Lay off him. You're his knight, not the other way round. And he's plenty clever,” Grun snorted, and added more sprouts, “and he’s a better cook than me.”

“Well maybe you should let him cook then,” Ruk snorted in annoyance, “cuz I'm not so sure about a Prince who can't fight.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t like the way it feels when they die,” Gelk hugged his knees to his chest, and sighed, “I’m not smart enough to be a smith or a merchant. They might as well just make me into a priest and get it done with.”

Grun held the silence under his sway as he looked the boy up and down.

“Do you want to be a priest, your grace?” Grun eventually asked. 

Gelk answered right away.

“No, Sir,” Gelk said, “I like the stories, but I’m too afraid of needles. And anyway, Duke Ironhill says the priesthood's unbecoming of a Prince, so…”

“Mm,” Ruk and Grun agreed simultaneously.

That last syllable was the only one spoken for some time. Steam rose from the pot, the stew bubbled, and little sticks crackled in the fire. Together they watched the edge of the night sky slowly, imperceptibly brighten as dawn approached in the east. As the sun peeked over the eastern edge of the desert that stretched out below the hills and their camp, Gelk, Ruk and Grun looked together to the north, over the salt desert, the cliffs beyond them, and the slim line of green trees at the very top of it all. When the pot finally bubbled all the way to the lid, the three of them turned in toward the fire to slurp down their meals. Although Ruk guzzled down her bowl with such gusto that she scorched her tongue and she spent almost as much time sputtering over a chunk of meat in her throat as she did actually eating.

“Pace yourself, kiddo. There's plenty'a gruel to go around.”

Ruk sputtered some more, glared at Grun, then pounded her chest a few times. With one big wheeze, the chunk of meat dislodged itself and shot straight into the fire, sizzling away among the embers. She didn’t expect him to laugh, but the stern look did make her pause.

“Ruk, you’re setting a bad example for his grace,” Grun chastised, though he served the girl another helping before she could complain.

Gelk chuckled, and slurped at the edge of his broth, picking at the ingredients with his fingers, “she’s always been like that, Sir Grun. Lady Ironhill likes it, I think. She says it’s a good thing I had Ruk as my littermate.”

Ruk pursed her lips, but chose to ignore that line of conversation. “Didn’t you say something about telling us a story?”

“Ah, so I did,” Grun said, “well, what story shall I tell.”

“I don’t know, Sir,” Ruk scowled, “isn’t it your job to tell me?”

“Wait, wait!” Prince Gelk interrupted, “tell me about Dakhmer’s Ear, Sir Grun!”

“What in Ogra’s name is Dakhmer’s Ear?” Ruk narrowed her eyes.

“It’s the story of the elves,” Gelk scowled right back.

“And what in Ogra’s name is an elf?” Ruk spat.

“Maggots in my eyeholes, Ruk. You don’t know anything, do you?” Grun grumbled then reached over and ruffled Gelk’s hair, “and as for you, little prince, of course you’d ask for a story like Dakhmer’s Ear. You’re lucky I know an odd one like that.”

Ruk turned her frown to Grun, “I don't get it. So what’s the big deal with this Dakhmer? He’s got little ears?”

“He’s the son of Eldag,” Gelk said, “who’s the son of Ogra. You didn’t know about them?”

“I don’t waste all day listening to stories,” Ruk announced proudly, “I know about Ogra, and that’s all I need.”

Grun shook his head, “sometimes I forget you’re just a cub, Ruk. It’s nice to know that your head is just as empty as it should be.”

“I’m not a cub, I’m eight!” Ruk protested, “I can hunt and kill and eat just fine.”

“You’re a maggot in my eyehole. If you don’t know Dakhmer, then you’re not a proper ork, so you’re still a cub,” Grun said flatly, “Your Grace, if you’d be so kind, why don’t you start? Tell us about Eldag and Dakhmer. I’ll take over when it’s time for the ear.”

“Uhm, alright” Gelk stroked the side of one tusk, “Well, after Ogra burned down the Valley of Plenty, and salted the Immortal Fields, she looked for somewhere to live and she found all the olden days orks who were living in the desert."

Gelk gestured out across the valley full of sand that stretched out around them. “They weren’t very smart, and they didn’t know how to live, so there was lots of fighting. Ogra didn’t like that so she set herself on fire and rode into the sky. But before she did, she made a baby with each of the clans: Sensen the Harpy King, and Threya the Other Witch, and Zibbenzab the Un-Coward, and also some guy from the old orks but we don't know his name, it doesn't really matter. The baby she had with that guy was Eldag: the first Ork to go to Vazh’Vaduum and breathe the smoke.”

Gelk pointed to the south, although there was nothing to see except sand. Vazh’Vaduum was very far away, after all.

“So Ogra’s made us and Eldag’s made the southerners,” Ruk said, “but I thought all Orks came from Ogra. How’d she make all the Orks, if there were Orks already here?”

“Ask a priest. There was always Orks, and there was always Ogra, but then Ogra made Eldag, and Eldag went to Vazh’Vaduum and breathed the smoke. I guess some Orks followed Eldag from the Salt, and once she learned how, she taught them all how to live in the smoke,” Gelk explained.

“So what's Eldag gotta do with elves?” Ruk asked.

“Eldag's got nothin’ to do with elves,” Grun said.

“Then why is he tellin’ all this!” Ruk shouted.

“Just let him tell the story, you grub!” Grun said

Ruk pouted.

Gelk cleared his throat and waited for approval from Grun before he continued. “From Lady Eldag, there came lots of litters of babies, but out of them all, Dakhmer is the most important. Dakhmer was called the First Priest of Salt. The priests say Dakhmer was the first ork to walk north and eat the salt. That’s where we came from. Eldag breathed the smoke, so Dakhmer ate the salt, so we were born, to sow our blood across the lands until they turn fertile and green again.”

“I thought we came from Ogra, not some priest,” Ruk complained.

“Ogra, Ogra's bastards, even you and me, it's all Ogra." Grun prodded. "Besides. You're just a cub, what do you know?”

Ruk grumbled but kept her mouth shut.

“Well said, Gelk. Just like the priests tell it. So. Dakhmer walked the salt flats and the deserts and taught us how to live proper lives as proper northern Orks. He went all the way from the edge of the Vaduum,” Grun pointed his finger south.

“Up north through the desert, then the salt flats, then the lowlands” he scanned his finger across the horizon.

“And then at last he came to the cliffs.”

“The cliffs?”

“Yeah,” Grun said and pointed to the north, far across the salt plains where the cliffs rose up into a thin line of trees, an emerald strip that separated the brown of the earth from the orange and violet of the morning sky — where the elves supposedly lived, “those cliffs.”

“So, then he gives this big speech to all his followers. Dakhmer said to his kin, ergh, somethin’ like, 'look now at these walls and see them. See them fer what they are, my kin.'”

“S'just rocks, right?” Ruk said.

“Yeah, but not to Dakhmer. He said 'these walls are the way to Ogra.' So all’a his kin tried to climb up there.”

Prince Gelk leaned forward, “ooh, did anyone make it up?”

Ruk rolled her eyes, “of course they did. Look at’em, they don’t seem so big.”

“Oh, trust me. Up close they’re big. Two and a half miles tall at the lowest point on the border, or so I heard a priest say. So no. Not a single soul made it to the top. They all broke their hands just tryin’, probably. And Dakhmer was furious. He turned to the ones that tried and said, 'Weak, weak, weak! Ogra abandoned you for your foolishness, and she rose into the sky! And you have the shame to fall down under her gaze?' Then he beats all these poor bastards to an inch of their lives, and tears off his own ear and hurls it up, up, up, so high it never comes down, all the way onto the top of the cliffs.”

“What, why?” Gelk said.

“Well, Ruk, what do you think?”

Ruk shrugged, "was he Zerking?"

Grun nodded, and Gelk blushed in embarrassment, "Oh. Right."

Ruk rolled her eyes.

“So you get it. And the Priests say that from Dakhmer's ear came elves. They’re supposed to be these angry, fluffy little things. Like what Orks would be, if Ogra only smiled, and they never had Salt or Smoke.”

“So not like Orks,” Ruk sighed, “no Salt? How little? Like gobbo babies? Hyenas? Salt-bear cub?”

Grun clucked his tongue. “Well, it’s just a story. Don’t think too hard. The Harpies from up north say there's elves, but if there's elves, they're nothing to look up to. They pick food off the ground, they’ve got so much water they swim in it. Weak, quarrelsome, never amount to much. All that.”

“Wow,” Gelk said.

“I want one,” Ruk snapped a twig in her hands, then snapped it again, “how are they supposed to fight and look after themselves and live if they don’t know Ogra? I need to hold one in my hand. Teach it to fight. Feed and water it. Care for it when it’s sick. Bathe it.”

Grun laughed, “don’t you have enough trouble of your own with that last one?”

Ruk huffed and kicked dirt at the old knight, who just chuckled more.

Prince Gelk gazed at the cliff, “have you ever seen an elf, Sir Grun?”

“Mercifuls, no. I don’t believe anyone who says they have,” Grun pondered, “it's too high up to see for anyone but a Harpy, and the trees are awful thick. So it must be cold, with lots of shade. If that’s how it is, I’m sure they’re very good at hiding. There are a few gossips I've heard on the festival days, that say Harpies from up north who fly too close to the woods get shot by arrows and such. But harpy eyes are made for sand, not trees, so seeing an elf seems unlikely as any.”

Gelk and Ruk both moped.

“Well, I want one. Even if they’re helpless and useless and soft. It’s not fair: you tell me that there’s elves up there and then you say I won’t ever get to see them,” Ruk complained.

“Now, now, Ruk. What’s fair?” Grun lectured.

“Ugh. Sand in the eye and a knife in the ribs,” Ruk sighed, threw her twigs on the fire, and crossed her arms.

“And when you go on your elf-hunt, you want a knife in the ribs?”

“No,” Ruk sulked. But still she stared at the cliffs. She twitched. Her chest heaved, her eyes held a subtle pink glow: a taste of bloodlust. “But I wanna feel one. In my hands. In my teeth. I wanna grip one by the throat and shred it with my claws and–”

“Easy Ruk. Keep it down,” the knight shook his head, “if not for yourself, then at least because you’ll trouble his grace.”

“Then Gelk should learn to Zerk on his own, instead of being such a useless elf!” She growled and flopped on her back, to look up at the stars, “what’s even the point of that whole story? You tell me about elves, and say they’re too high to go see’em, what a big waste of time.” 

Gelk said, “Ruk, I think it’s a story about how it's a waste of time to chase fake things instead of real ones.”

"Well, I already knew that." Ruk said.

“Then you ought not fret about a fairy creature that no one has ever seen in years,” Grun agreed, “There's been enough body parts planted in the sand for us all to know they don’t grow up whole new beasties.”

“So's you say. I think they’re up there,” Ruk snorted. “Of course, Ogra was disappointed. Everyone gave up and quit. If I was there, I’d show Dakhmer what a real Ork’s made of. I’d climb all the way to the top, and up there would be a big juicy pile of elfs all sitting there, just for me, by the grace of Ogra herself. And I'd grab'em up and teach'em how to Zerk, just like that.”

“Maybe, maybe. Who knows,” Grun laughed, pushed up on his scarred knees to stand. He offered his hands to the children. “One way or the other, no one's seeing elves today, my Squires. The sun is far too high, and we are up far too late. Many’s the day on the trail back to Ironhill, and the Duke and Duchess are going to have seats just for you in the Ashrite parade. We’d best not miss it from sleeping in.”